


And Perhaps None Will Hear

by aroriza



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disabled Character, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I WILL MAKE IT HAPPEN, Muteness, Panic Attacks, Swearing, because THIS WILL HAVE A HAPY ENDING, because not all disability stories have to be about pure angst, i guess but just in case you dont like, this is the mute!zuko au that for some reason this fandom does not have, which is just plain confusing to me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroriza/pseuds/aroriza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only <i>ironic</i>, after all that Zuko loses his voice after trying to speak up. Learning and moving on isn't easy, but then again, life isn't either. It's a good thing that Zuko can adapt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd - if you'd like to beta, please comment!

Waking up is absolute hell; the sheets are moist and sweaty from fever and sleep, and the room is lit only by a few candles.

For Zuko, rising and breathing is like suffocation, and there’s not enough light to see anything but the ceiling - a white expanse of cracks that spreads to the walls before fading. His throat hurts. His everything hurts. His body is groggy and laden with sleep, and what to him feels like the weight of the ocean. The room rocks side-to-side, in time with his vertigo.

_Why am I here?_

He couldn’t remember how he got into the infirmary this time - but whatever it was, it was probably his fault.  Lots of things were his fault - his grandfather’s death and his mother’s disappearance. At least this time, it was probably just his sister and her tricks.

_Then why does it hurt so much?_

One of the candles flickers out and he almost jumps when the feeling of it hits his gut. He realizes that it was just the candle, and he calms down - maybe he should try meditating with the candles? That always helps him feel better.

Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply. In. Out. A couple more breaths, and he seeks the center of the nearest candle flare.

The second he meets the flame, he wants to die. His gut cramps and he moves to vomit and that hurts his neck, jolts it from it’s safe position and leaves _sparks_ shooting up his spins, but he can’t stop the vomit, it’s just there, it’s just there like his _father and his hands and the men_ watching as it - the fireball, hotter than anything _he_ could ever create - hit him. The memory goes in through one side of his body and out the other like a knife, spearing him in half. His skull must be cracking - _no_ , it’s cleaving, perfectly in two - and it’s like one half is on the bed, silent, and the other is in the war chamber, on the ground, clawing weakly at the burn, voice hoarse from screaming.

Or did he scream? He can’t remember now.

He gives one final shudder, his body half hanging off the bed, and he watches as a final trail of bile lands on the floor in the pile of vomit. His throat hurts. It hurts badly, and the muscles there twitch and spasm erratically like animals trying to free themselves from his flesh.

He smells bad. It’s really quiet. The sweaty sheets absolutely reek and he wants to escape the narrow room, to get up and leave, but he can barely move his legs.

The door creaks open and a tall man comes in, silhouetted by the light in the hallway. “Stay down,” he says, voice quiet and - is that condescending? “Prince Zuko.” Definitely condescending.

Zuko moves to respond and ask who are you? but all that comes out is a painfully crackly grunt. He blinks. That’s not what he wanted to say. He tries to ask again, and this time it comes out as a long, low wheeze and his vocal chords ache in effort. His heart kicks into double speed, and the panic builds in his chest. _Something’s wrong - something’s wrong_ \- the feeling crawls up his chest like spiders.

The man’s voice softens, and the sour tone disappears. “Don’t try to speak right now,” he says, helping Zuko up. He holds a glass of water to his lips, and Zuko takes a few sips reluctantly, because even though his throat hurts like anything he can’t bring himself to swallow the water quickly. It’s simply too painful. Still, the water soothes the pain, and quenches his thirst.

The room is still rocking, back and forth, back and forth, and it hits Zuko that it may not just be vertigo that makes him feel that way. Was he on a ship?

He opens his mouth to answer, but closes it, remembering the probably-healer’s orders. Instead, he mimes writing in the air, and mentally thanks the spirits that the healer understood his flimsy motion. A pen and paper was placed in his hands.

First things first. _What happened?_ He scrawls onto the paper.

“Your father banished you, Prince Zuko,” the healer responds in the simplest way possible.

Zuko blinks and taps his fingers on the paper, vaguely remembering a dream where his father visited him and told him of his banishment… _wait_ , was he really supposed to capture the Avatar? He writes the question down.

The healer sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Yes - “

The door creaks open, and a portly figure enters the room.

“Is my neph - Ah! You’re awake now, nephew!”

No one speaks like that, Zuko thinks, except uncle.

He hums in greeting, and gestures to the question already written on the page. _What happened?_

Uncle Iroh smiles at the healer and dismisses him, and if Zuko wasn’t so well acquainted with the man, he wouldn’t have seen the hard glint in his eye.

His uncle does not sit down, and his voice is quiet when he speaks. “What do you remember?”

Zuko writes down the words fast, without bothering to form sentences or coherency. _War meeting. Father. Agni Kai._ There’s a hitch in his strokes when he writes down _Burn. Banishment. Avatar._

His uncle, ever calm, bites his lip. “I see you remember most of it.”

Zuko scrawls _are we on a ship?_

“Yes,” Uncle Iroh replies. “I arranged with your father for you to have a ship and crew to search for the Avatar.”

Zuko pauses, clutching his pen tightly in his fist. _If I capture the Avatar, I will have my banishment reconciled, right?_ He prints.

Uncle sighs. ‘Yes,” he says, in that slow voice of his, “but first recuperate, nephew. The Avatar is not as important as your health.”

_But I have_ \- he begins on the paper, only to stop himself before he could finish the sentence. Tapping the pen on the paper, Zuko thinks about the pain at his throat. _What is the extent of the burn, Uncle?_ He writes instead.

“Second-degree, on your throat and left cheek,” Uncle says while gesturing to the respective places. “It will heal with time and patience, but it will scar.”

Zuko swallows nervously.

“And,” he continues. “There’s a bit of trauma to your vocal cords.”

Clutching at his temples and trying to comprehend what Uncle Iroh just said, Zuko writes on the paper: _permanent?_

“That’s the thing, nephew,” his uncle says. “We don’t know yet.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctor's words are verdict and law, but Iroh's more than willing to become a vigilante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry bout the wait! the storys still un'betaed but enjoy!

The Lieutenant has a look of pity in his eyes. Zuko has his fist clenched tight against his side, muscles twitching with the anticipation of a swing. Both phenomenons are not completely unrelated.

The railing hurts his elbows when he leans on it so he falls back and away from it, walking across the deck to the starboard side. The lieutenant continues to watch and Zuko  _ wants _ to scream. To turn and yell at the man in his loudest voice that  _ I’m the Prince of the Fire Nation! Show some respect! _

The paper crumbles and rips between Zuko’s fingertips and he slackens his grip on it. It’s his only way of communicating currently - he can’t destroy it.

Today’s the day the bandages are coming off.

He shakes out the paper anxiously.

Those phenomenons are also not completely unrelated.

The lieutenant continues to stare, and then Zuko’s off to find Uncle and get him to hire a new goddamn lieutenant - this man has no respect for him, after all.

* * *

“It’s healed, sir.”

The medic has a smooth voice, Zuko decides. It’s slick like ice, and absolutely plain with no distinguishing marks. There’s no concern or dripping pity - the healer has seen many wounds before, and he’s dull to the appearance of most of them.

The cool air stings against the burn wound and Zuko suddenly has the urge to wrap his throat in bandages again, if only to protect the burn from the world - or to protect the world from the burn. Either one works for him. He’s not particularly interested in the details of his disfigurement, except for the fact that  _ you know _ , it’s  _ his _ disfigurement, and that  _ you know _ , it’s right on  _ his _ fucking  _ face _ .

The burn itches, almost in response to his thoughts, and the medic hands him a mirror.

He looks at the burn. He looks at the burn hard. That goddamn lieutenant has to get the fuck off his ship, because that man will never stop staring at him with those pitiful eyes at this rate.

For that matter, he can't stop staring at it himself.

The burn is big and ugly, like a child smeared their sticky, paint covered fingers all over his skin and left it to dry and crack. It bites into his bottom lip and eats away the flesh of his jaw, the flesh appearing to melt and peel away from his bone.

He barely keeps in the vomit, and his fingers brace against the edges of the mirror, clenched so tight that they’re turning white. The boy in the mirror is not one he recognizes.

His uncle doesn’t say anything, and Zuko is so very grateful for that; he wouldn’t be able to take the pity or the condolences. They’d taste fake and dead like ash on his tongue - and that’s a memory he’d rather forget.

_ (Flesh bubbling in the molten heat - the evaporated oils coat his tongue, thick and smooth; there’s ash laying flat on the remains of his bottom lip and smoke curling languidly away from the wreckage of a boy on the ground. The curvature of his sister’s smile - no, why would she - is the last thing he remembers before the world drops away.) _

And besides, there’s more important concerns. Zuko glares at Uncle and Uncle watches him back, his eyes old and experienced and sad. Sometimes Zuko forgets this man is as weary and aged as he is, with his eccentricities and his delight in life’s simple pleasures. This is not one of those times.

Uncle gets the message, and he poses the question to the healer. “How about the vocal cords, Sargeant?”

Zuko’s nails dig into the edges of the mirror at the words. The healer’s eyes flicker nervously, first to the general in the corner and then to the child on his bed, and he swallows nervously. The man’s name is Senji, and he’s heard the rumors. He’s no fool - he’s heard what happens to messengers that bring bad news to the royal family. When Fire Lord Azulon was diagnosed to be bedridden near the end of his life, he got up and stared the doctor right in the eye before condemning the doctor to jail for the rest of his years and proceeding to walk out of the room and live on his feet for another seven years. The doctor is still rotting in jail, if the Senji remembers correctly. His hands shake at the thought, and once again he thinks that maybe, serving the Fire Nation this way was a bad idea. Especially the royals - the kid may not have that much power, but old man Iroh still does.

So it is with regret that he speaks. “I’m sorry.” Zuko looks away. “The damage is permanent.”

Zuko bites his tongue to keep from screaming - or worse, crying - before it strikes him that the gesture’s useless now.

The healer continues speaking and Zuko only catches a few words - burn, vocal trauma, constriction, almost (not quite) third-degree, damage - but he’s not listening now.

_ What other gestures are useless now?  _ Who _ else is usele - _

That’s not a thought he’s willing to finish.

Uncle turns to the healer, and Zuko can hear the whistle of his exhale. “You are dismissed, Sargeant Senji.”

The second the man is gone, Zuko slumps, falling like a puppet with it’s strings cut. He drapes himself over the bed, body tense but tired. He’s done. He knows it. He wants to be alone.

He wants to cry.

Uncle looks over him once, and squeezes his eyes shut. He instinctively understands what Zuko wants; after all, he wanted it once too. After Lu Ten died, he'd receded from the world. While it was perhaps harmful to seek that much time in solitary, the silence and privacy had helped him recover enough to embrace company and happiness once more.

Zuko needs time alone to grieve, he decides. “Nephew, rest does the mind good. You should sleep. I'll visit you with tea later.” He gives a smile, even if it is somewhat forced. “Is ginseng good?”

To answer, Zuko turns over and away from Iroh, burrowing his head into the pillow, and grasps at blankets that aren't there before his hands drop away in disappointment. Iroh’s smile becomes a bit more genuine when he picks the blanket from the corner and drapes it over his nephew. For a second he has the compulsion to place his hand on Zuko’s forehead, stroke it and hum a lullaby like he did for Lu Ten when he had nightmares as a child - but he refrains. Zuko never liked contact as much as Lu Ten did. Iroh will respect that.

Before he shuts the door when leaving, he glances back and the silhouette of the boy imprints itself in Iroh's mind. There’s an image there now, flashing behind Iroh’s eyelids in recollection: the same boy falling. It’s not in fire, no, nothing like that - it’s just in Zuko’s nature to fall. His childhood was falls and scrapes, and there were many a time when he would find the boy sulking by the garden pond, shins scraped and ego deflated. But the boy would get up every time; it was just in his nature. It was sheer determination that drove Zuko from bed in the morning, the same determination that makes him strive to compete against people and forces far beyond his control. But this time, the cliff was tall, and the fall, difficult.

_ What if he doesn't get up this time? _

The thought strikes Iroh like a sword, and he swallows. He can't allow that. Never. Not in his lifetime is he ever going to see another son fall.

_ No matter what, I have to help him get back up. _

* * *

 

Iroh doesn't come back nearly as late as he originally planned. Tray in hand, he comes back to the room less than an hour after he left. It's quiet in the room save for Zuko's whistling snore.

So Iroh was right - Zuko was tired enough to pass out this fast. After all, Zuko hadn't been sleeping well lately. That, combined with the shock he'd just received today was more than enough to finally shut his body down into sleep. He smiles, satisfied, and sits down to wait over the boy, the scent of tea wafting over the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback would be greatly appreciated!! my writing style is kind of weird so yea...... esp. there  
> and im still looking for betas so ...? preferred beta qualities would be grammar/spelling (of course), constructive criticism and someone to bounce ideas off, because plotting for this fic is still somewhat undetermined. anyway, if ya want the position, leave a comment or message me at [blindroys](blindroys.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

**Author's Note:**

> so how did that go? was the characterization okay?


End file.
